The Sadhana
by Heidi Ahlmen
Summary: The new Millennium is only a few hours old. To mend a broken mind and an exhausted body Lara Croft embarks on a journey through familiar but treacherous Tibetan terrain. Ranked among the top ten entries in Village of Tokakeriby's 2002 story competition.
1. Chapter 1

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.

Only to be archived at and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.

Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Chapter One

It was the first of January 2000. First day of the much-talked-about new millennium. The medium-sized, old TV-screens in Cairo aiport still flashed images of kissing couples of Times Square, New York, even though the year had changed twelve hours earlier. I was sitting in the far corner of the international terminal, buried deep in my thoughts in on of those ugly and uncomfortable plastic chairs all airports seem to house. The hall was empty except for me and an older Arab with two cages filled with chattering chickens, obviously waiting in the wrong terminal for a domestic flight.

My plane had departed hours before without me. My two suitcases lied on the floor, waiting for the dust to settle onto them. And I just sat, trying to clean up the mess storming in my head.

I didn't give a toss about the millennium.

Hours and hours before, I had been resqued from a pyramid inhabited by an ancient Egyptian devil. I had witnessed spirits being conjured, gods coming to life and going back to the underworld. Many survivors of major disasters have said that thinking back, the whole accident feels like a movie they've watched, or a book they've read - like nothing like it had never happened to them. I had seen and done things that defy all laws of time and space - I think I could state that not many people can swallow down and understand that in a day.

Swallowing down and understanding was what I was trying in the airport. I just sat, too much had happened to me and I felt as I was to shatter to small pieces of Greek amphoras if I returned home on that afternoon flight. I was up for another destination.

Another way. I was dead to the world. Why couldn't I stay dead for some time more? I had no family, noone to look after - a blink must've lit in my eyes when I realized that, for the first time, all options were open to me. I had money to support a cricket team, a story incredible enough to ensue me a vacancy in an asylum for the rest of my life, and unlimited amount of time, and thirty years of mixed memories to organize.

I needed someplace far. Someplace safe. Someplace important to me.

Having a transient moment of absolute relief, I stood up, stretching my legs a bit. left my bags in the waiting area, and walked up to the boards where all the departuring flights were signalled digitally.

00:20 Bangkok 00:20 Berlin 00:25 London 00:35 Kathmandu

I walked up to the ticket office counter and purchased a single one-way ticket to Kathmandu.

Exhausted from staying up and other things, I literally rambled to the Boeing 737 destined in Kathmandu, Nepal. I found my seat in the first class. I was the only passenger so far - not a strange thing when you start wondering what kinds of people fly from Cairo to Kathmandu. Camel dealers planning to do some exchanging for camels? Hardly.

Outside it was dark. Cairo is near enough the Equator to ensue the lack of twilight. It gets dark in a pang. Morning comes in a split second as the sun rises from, seemingly, behind the Great Pyramid. I tossed by handbag under my seat and started worrying about clothes. It was going to be about five degrees celsius in Kathmandu, and I only had summer clothes with me. I was wearing an extremely wrinkled linnen dress with sandals. I did had with me a pair of jeans. Those would have to do until I got some warmer clothes purchased from the city. If you can call Kathmandu a city.

It's a world of its own, really. On my first trip there, if you can call it one, didn't give me much opportunities to get to know it thoroughly. I had been transported from Darchen Medical Center, a rotten hellhole in the Himalayas, to Kathmandu hospital to wait for a private flight back to England. Some trip that was. Some say the best way to deal with painful memories is to laugh at them or rip irony or sarcams out of them, but I feel no need for that. My fight for survival in Tibet was one of the best times of my life - minus the possibility of dying out there. I would do it again if it would solve as many of my current problems as it did all those years ago. This attitude, eventually lead to the conflict between me and my family.

The plane door were closed and it started rolling towards the actual runway. I clicked on my belt and closed my eyes. Don't get me wrong - I do not have a fear of flying even though I have suffered at least three crashes of aircrafts. Let's just say I'm always perfectly aware of my surroundings every split second I'm flying somewhere. I have a flying certificate, but sometimes it makes things worse. You're sitting aboard a commercial flight, you hit turbulence. You get nervous. There's nothing you can do about it but to me awake and nervous. When you're flying yourself, you choose the weather - unless you're escaping or chasing someone - and the area you will be flying above.

The plane took off. I accepted an offer of tea, and dug out my laptop. Then I injected the teleport cord to my satellite phone and checked my email. It's an expensive but a very nice thing to have a satellite phone. Unlike cellphones, they cause no harm to aeroplane electronics, and you don't need to be in a network area to be able to make a call.

No email. I was dead to the world. It made me slightly touchy - my aunt whom I love like a mother didn't know whether I was dead or alive - and my father must've thought I was among the deceased. But the feeling of need for time for myself won over. I belonged to me. If I wanted to vanish I would. If pushed against the wall about my selfishness, I wouldn't deny my guilt.

Then I made a decision. I would send a ostcard to Jean from Kathmandu. I wouldhave loved to take a picture of his face when he read it. He'd probably dig out that funny little magnifying glass with a small lamp of his he uses to read hieroglyphics, and try to figure out if the handwriting was genuine. I realized I had to take a picture of myself and attach it to the letter or card. He wouldn't believe me otherwise. It was fairly safe to let him informmy family. I knew my father would hardly come looking for me. My aunt Gillian - she would cry for an hour, then go back to her garden. I indulged myself fully into imagining different people's faces when they discovered the truth about me - that I was safe, unless you counted some burn marks in the legs that would positively leave a scar and some other minor injuries. When I came to von Croy, I stopped. It made me feel sad somehow. An unexplainable feeling.

I got up from my seat and headed towards the toilet with my handbag as the first peaks of the Himalayas appeared in the small plane windows at dawn. The dark-green, fruitful plains of India first turned into dead, brown plateau below the mountains - and fater that, the mountains just rushed out of nowhere. First there is low hills and then a huge, snow-tipped mountain. One of the miracles of the world. Unlike Altai farther north, Himalaya is a relatively young mountain range. It's the sharpness of the peaks and the steepness of them that tells it. Old ranges usually have existed long enough to become low from erosion.

I closed the toilet door behind me, and pulled loose strands of hair from the hairbrush I had bought with me. I have long hair, so single hairs that come off make such twists in a hairbrush that they would make molecular biologists interested. I brushed my hair and worried.

I had made a hasty decision. I had a good purpose to retreat to Tibet for awhile - but I had no visa, no warm enough clothes, and no money exchanged. Money wasn't going to be a problem - kathmandu houses several international banks. I knew people at the embassy so I could get a visa fast without any awkward explanations - news don't travel very fast in Nepal so my death would hardly have come out as big news yet. When that would happen, I'd be far gone. I changed to jeans and a T-shirt. My bomber jacket was waiting in a plastic bag in my suitcase. I always carry it with me - it's unpleasant the least when I return back to England without a sufficiently thick coat to keep me warm during the bike ride from Heathrow to Surrey.

I braided my hair just a bit so it would stay as one big strand in my neck. I can't wear a ponytail - it splits and spreads itself like a cloud on my face when walking in windy terrain such as Kathmandu.

What was I going to Tibet for? I had a quite clear answer to that. First I would replenish my gear in kathmandu, get a visa, and then find the first two of the three persons I was seeking. After finding them I would then hire a driver and start looking for the third.

I wanted to find the three persons that saved my neck on my first venture into this holy land of Tibet and pay my debt.

I returned to my seat. The plane was taking a turn and the mountain seemed to be rushing towards the plane windows. Absolute beauty.

After finding a hotel - a nice, cozy place kept up by a Dutch pair completely in love with each other and Nepal, I stocked my backpack with water-desinfection tablets, band-aid and two warm sweaters along with some traditional clothes. I had made some calls and fixed myself a visa for three months. I wasn't going to stay that long, but a precaution is a precaution.

Kathmandu is a religious city, filled with small temples, smiling monks, and stupas, meaning small religious monuments in the form of towers found everywhere in Asia including Cambodia and China. But there is slum. People live in Chiquita banana boxes stolen from hotels, underneath upside-down- turned rickshaws, covering themselves with pieces of plastic bags and rags. It's a sad thing to see. And they are sick. Thank God I had all my vaccinations in order. Some cough blood, other stare at you with reddish, suffering eyes, making you feel like the worst, most evil creature in the world for not saving them. I've heard that tuberculosis is a common ailment in India and some parts of Tibet. I shiver at the thought of getting sick in a remote area.

I once fell ill with malaria during a hunt in Cambodia where I overestimated my condition and strenght, and nearly died. I've been near death many times, but I've somehow slithered away without help every time. In Cambodia that time I wouldn't have been capable of saving myself. I was hunting for the Angkorean Iris with a partner, a partner who saved me by contacting my father. My father contacted an American army officer working in the peacekeeping operation in the area who arranged me a private emergency flight to Bangkok.

I did get the Iris, though. Even when I thought I didn't.

I secretly enjoyed the fact that this time I didn't have an artifact to hunt after.

I left the market square, dodging monks, donkey-sellers and children on a crowded street. What next? I didn't suppose they made phone books of Kathmandu, so I figured that the best way to find certain people was to walk around and ask people. I don't speak Tibetan, but I was sure I could find someone who at least understood some English.

I was wrong. Hours passed - no English-speakers. One spoke fluent French - but I can't understand a word of it so a good chance to gain some information was wasted. I didn't really mind spending time in the city - it has such a strange atmosphere that obviously opens best to Buddhists. No tourists, noone's gathering around you, trying to sell junk like they do in Egypt, no McDonald's restaurants.

After pacing the streets for four hours I returned to my hotel. The receptionist greeted me with a teethless smile - she was an older woman wearing a thick, rug-style poncho over her shoulders. She gave me my key - I was glad to notice she remembered me so I didn't have to mention my name. I went up to my room and slumped on the bed.

My room was dark. Decorated with light red - not pink, just sort of a dim red - it had a small bathroom, where small insects had taken over the shower since the previous guest had left. There was a big, round window, where one corner was broken. I fingered the fracture, and decided to scotch- tape it later. The bed was small, nearly too short for me, and covered in three thick, woolly blankets. Good - I didn't have to use my sleeping bag. I quickly pulled away the mattresses to do a quick check-up for lice - an ever-present nuisance in Asia, occasionally even in the finest hotels. No bugs. I still decided to use one of the blankets as a sheet. You never know what can creep underneath you in the dead of the night.

The floor was dusty but clean enough, so I took off my sweaty boots, placed them in the bathroom sink and walked back to the bedroom in my tennis socks. After stuffing the clothes I had bought from the market in my suitcase, I slid it under the bed. It made a loud thunk as it hit something in the back end, next to the wall. I pulled it back and stuck my head under the bed to see what was blocking it.

It was a small, aluminium case, the lid open. I pulled it from under the bed, and sat down on the dusty floor to inspect it. A small, greu mouse had chosen it to be its last resting place, but besides him, the case was almost. I put the lid on it to see what the lid was like. As the box, it was made of aluminium, a traditionally valuable substance in the Asian mountains, and decorated lavishly. In the middle of the lid was a raised figure the shape of a Shrivi, a protective goddess of Tibetan Buddhism. Underneath it, a carved word: Sadhana. I was puzzled. Sadhana as a word was usually attributed with a goddess of wisdom called Tara, that manifests itself in twenty-one different forms, and Shrivi definitely had nothing to do with it. I had no idea of the word's translation, whatsoever. I inspected the box further. A map functioned as a background to the text and the raised figure. A map of a part of West Tibet. The box made absolutely no sense. It must've been some kind of tourist junk. Pleased of the fact that I had solved the riddle, I carefully put the lid back on, and slowly pushed the case back under the bed. My suitcase followed it after a few seconds. I forgot all about the box and sat on my bed, trying to decide my approach on the subject of finding the people I was looking for. My first goal was to find John and Angela Gilliam, two anthropologists who had worked at a dig near Darchen at the time I found my way to the remote village of Tokakeriby after the infamous plane crash that changed my life. They had worked for the university of Taipei, and helped a great deal in returning me home. I had only learnt their names from my parents - I finally wanted to learn the wholy story about what had happened to me that year. My parents, in their own words, had wanted to spare me from too much worries by not sharing the deatales of my route after my return. But somehow it had always felt important to know the true lenght of my journey from the crash site to the village. The true form of my purgatory. The true prize of freedom.

At nine in the evening I was hungry enough to change clothes and go looking for a place to eat in in the now dark, but still buzzing streets. I took no chances - I chose the most expensive I could find - hoping that the extra price would improve the hygiene. I ordered a buff curry - water buffalo meat seems to be the best substitute for beef in Nepal. I noticed that the waiter seemed to speak quite a lot of English. I wondered if the restaurant owner spoke an equal amount - restaurant owners are a good start when looking for information about local inhabitants, especially foreign. Foreigners tend to dine in the more expensive places when it comes to remote areas, so restaurant owners meet a lot of important people in the scale of smale towns and villages. Kathmandu is quite big, but it was a lead good as any. After all, I didn't even know if the Gilliams were in the country. Upon paying for my meal I asked the waiter if I could thank the owner personally about the food, but the waiter just smiled, and introduced himself as the owner, pleasantly suprised, I asked him about the Gilliams.

"Yes, I have seen them here," he replied instantly.

"John and Angela Gilliam? Canadians?" I asked, almost uncharacteristically excited.

"Yes, yes! They eat here. Sunday," he replied, waving his hands in a gesture I couldn't understand.

"Every Sunday?" I asked, not believing my luck.

"Yes, yes. Every Sunday. Ten clock." He was obviously meaning ten p.m. It was half-past nine.

"Are they coming today?"

"Ashedelek?" He didn't seem to understand.

"Today? Will they come today? The Gilliams - today?" I tried to simplify. He understood.

"Yes, yes. Today. They reservation," he explained matter-of-factly.

"They have a reservation? Thank you," I tipped the poor man and waited. I realized I had forgotten to ask what the Gilliams looked like. On the other hand, I'd probably recognize them anyway. There couldn't be so many Canadian couples living in Kathmandu, could there?

It made a lot of sense that the Gilliams would come to the restaurant as late as ten p.m. I remembered the time I had to work in excavations during my university studies. After working long hours under the burning sun the last thing you need is a group of drunken, fat Peruvians mooning over you in a crummy local bar. It's better to eat or drink after the sunset - most locals go to bed after the sun has set to get up when it rises. Before sunset the noise is bars and restaurants, especially in Central America, is overwhelming.

So I sat and waited. Five minutes past ten in the evening the door opened. A whizz of wind came in from the door - it had started to breeze outside. It felt so lovely to sit inside, in the candle-lit restaurant. I've been out there enough many times to learn to apprecaite the chance to enjoy Tibet behind a window.

From the opened door entered an elderly caucasian couple. My heart leapt uncontrollably as I became certain that these were the Gilliams. but my heart soon slumped back as I realized I had a problem. I had caused them a lot of trouble back them. Would they remember them - would they want to remember? What if I had messed their excavation schedule completely? But surely they would like to see me - they helped save me. They were the only people in the area who could have arranged a transportation for me back to civilization, as the monks who found me obviously had no cars or planes. Did the monks find me or did I find them? Another thing I didn't know. How could I approach the Gilliams? I would have to introduce myself. Should I wait that they had eaten?

I decided I had waited long enough, so I just waited until they had settled down to a peaceful corner table. The restaurant owner passed me after he had given the Gilliams menus. He smiled at me. I left my things in my table, and got up. I walked up to the Gilliams and cleared my throat to get them to move their attention from the hors d'oeuvres - pieces of bread - to me.

"John and Angela Gilliam?" I asked.

"Yes?" The man replied. The woman was just looking at me.

"My name is Lara Croft. Perhaps you do not remember me," I began, but stopped as I saw the expression on the couple's face change to extreme surprise.

"Lara Croft? Little Lara Croft? Dvesagniprashamani's Lara?" the man was almost staring at me.

"Excuse me?" I asked. I naturally recognized my name, but the man had called me something I had never heard of.

"We remember you," the woman replied.

"So you must be Angela," I said, pleased. For my surprise both of them got up and gave me a hug.

"Please, Lara, do sit down. Please, sit down."

I stumbled around the table and got my things from the tabel I had been sitting in and joined them at the corner table.

"I wasn't sure you still worked here. I felt like leading a wild goose chase," I remarked. The couple nodded.

"How long has it been, Angela? Ten years, fifteen? Yes, we're still here, there's a small vocational school here, we sort of volunteer there. We are both retired, Angela and I."

I had no idea how to approach the subject I had come to discuss. Luckily I didn't have to.

"Lara, please tell us about yourself. What do you do for living? Why did you seek us?"

I told them a short version of my professional history, and mentioned Ihad just been to Egypt and came here out of the blue.

"An archaeologist, then? Good choice, I have to say. What university or museum?" Angela asked, and John nodded, his mouth full of curry.

They were a lovely, old couple, who were still seemingly in love. I didn't remember much of them but somehow their distinguishingly warm relationship had remained visible in my mind.

"I do have a post with the British Museum, but I mostly do sort of freelancer work." They obviously hadn't read anything about me. In the scale of science, I am a celebrity. I do the kind of work that gathers attention.

"Freelancer work?" they asked.

"I recover artefacts for museums, private collectors and such."

Angela smiled. "Sort of an Indiana Jane, then?"

It's always somehow refreshing to talk to people who don't have any prejudices about me. Of course I'm not a celebrity like Madonna, but my books have gathered a fandom. When speaking with people like the Gilliams, I can choose what the image they get of me is like. Magazines write a lot crap. Nepal has obviously been spared by paparazzis. A true shangri-la.

I smiled back. "Quite like that, yes."

John looked mysterious. I wiped off an eyelash from my cheek and asked what he was thinking.

"I was just wondering what you did with that dagger."

The dagger. Of course. They msut've heard. Peking university. I had donated the dagger of Xian to Peking's historical museum, which was owned by the state university.

"You really thought Nepal was remote enough to prevent any news from coming through? We've been following your career for years. It's a lovely thought that we might've affected it somehow," John said, his face a smile.

I relaxed. I was with good people.

--------------------

As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.

siirma6surfeu.fi 


	2. Chapter 2

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Two  
  
After the Gilliams had hastily finished their late-night dinners, we walked to their house some four blocks away. They lived in a typical, ramshackled- looking high house with window covers to prevent rain coming in. It seldom rained in Nepal - the phenomena had something to do with the altitude of the area, I can't say better. Angela and John had decorated their ascetic condo very Western-style, with couches, a television with a big satellite antenna, a double bed and a quite modern kitchen. We settled into the living room, and Anegla went to make some tea.  
  
"So, why did you decide to find us?"  
  
I have never been very straightforward about my personal things - I need to be tired and a bit careless to openly talk about myself and my personal history. The situation was just right that time.  
  
"How much do you know about me, John? Have the tabloids reached the last remote corners of the world?" I asked, sounding a little cynical.  
  
"All we know is that you're famous. And skilled. You were a university prodigy - writing your senior thesis a year earlier than everyone else, or something like that. You are the daughter of a Lord, from a powerful and wealthy family. Angela's always been wondering how your parents reacted to you becoming an archaeologist."  
  
"Oh." I cut my reaction short. I was going to have to explain to them quite a lot. Angela returned from the kitchen with three mugs of gunpowder tea, and asked what we were discussing.  
  
"Lara was telling me about her work, weren't you?"  
  
I nodded. I didn't have a clue how to start. The Gilliams were obviously waiting for some kind of a life story. "True, John, I was born to a powerful family that kept to tradition. My mother was only married to aristocracy, not born, so she understood my decision quite a bit better than my father. I was supposed to be schooled, and then get married. That plan never became reality."  
  
"What happened?" Angela asked, sipping her tea.  
  
"The plane crash that left me on my own somewhere in the mountains. I've come here to learn the truth about what happened." They seemed to ignore my last phrase and tackled onto the plane crash.  
  
"How did it affect your life, then, otherwise than just as a tragedy?"  
  
I put away my teacup. "I can't speak for the other passengers who died, but to me, it eventually came out as anything but a tragedy. It set me free in a way." I startled myself by saying such things. I never speak so... Quite so... emotionally. I'm a practical person. I don't contribute in spiritual flim-flam.  
  
The Gilliams just looked at me, puzzled. Probably asking themselves how I could not consider the death of four hundred passengers a tragedy. I was forced to continue.  
  
"I realized there was life outside the walls of mansions, outside of charity banquets, and beyond social life in London area. Naturally, my father disagreed. Four months after my return I was disowned and cut off the family will." When someone hears this, they usually get shocked and feel sorry for me. I don't feel sorry. I don't want much to do with people like my father. My mother's relatives are the only piece of family I have.  
  
The Gilliams looked shocked enough.  
  
"You were disowned? I never believed that could happen anymore?" John asked.  
  
"Generally, it doesn't. My father's almost a historical case."  
  
"So, how did you... manage?" Asked Angela carefully.  
  
"At the time, I inherited an aunt in my mother's family. I inherited a mansion in Surrey, away from Wimbledon where my parents lived. I also inherited enough money to get me through university. I had to change universities a few minutes - I've studied in the States besides Britain. When I had written my senior thesis a collector heard of me, hired me, and helped me on my feet financially. Since that I've worked as an archaeologist, a museum curator, and written books."  
  
The couple kept looking at me, amused. Then John asked;  
  
"So, what brings you here, then? A treasure hunt?"  
  
"This time, no. I spent Christmas and New Year in Egypt, and a lot of things - I won't get into details - happened. This is a sort of a holiday. I decided to find you because I want to know what happened when that plane crashed. Most of it I do remember, I remember being out there, but after being found after the first blizzards, all is blank. I only have my parents' story to lean on. They didn't want to upset me with details."  
  
"We understand," Angela interrupted her husband who was about to say something, "I've always been wondering why you didn't come back earlier. I somehow knew you'd come and ask the questions. That crash must have meant so much to you," she was leading me to ask something.  
  
"John - when I walked to your table you called me by a strange name. It sounded like Tibetan, very much so."  
  
"Dvesagniprashamani's Lara?" John asked.  
  
I nodded enthusiastically. "That's it. I don't recognize the word."  
  
"That's the first name I heard you being called by."  
  
My turn to look puzzled. I anticipated I was going to hear something of importance.  
  
"We were covering up the dig that day, for the first snowstorms of the winter had just swept over. we were soon going to return to China for the midwinter. One day a middle-aged monk walked to the village from a monastery about five miles from Tokakeriby. He was tired from the walk - it was long and the weather was cold. I was probably the only person in the whole of Eastern Tibet who spoke the dialect of Tibetan spoken in the Darchen area along with English and French, of course. The monk walked up to be, greeted quickly, and then told me to follow. I told him I couldn't just leave my work, it was getting dark, but he was persistent. Told me I had to come." "She öeft me to take care of the rest of the work and followed the monk. It was really strange for that monk to come all the way to the village to talk to us," Angela told, pulling her feet up to the couch.  
  
I took a better position in my chair. John continued.  
  
"True, I left Anegla in the village and followed the monk. It was getting dark and the whole thing seemed like a prank played by the monks on us. But when I looked at the monk, I knew something was up. He was quite aged, leaning on a stick as he and I made the painful and freezing journey to the monastery. Five miles doesn't sound much, but you know how the air is so high up."  
  
"Would you like some more tea, Lara?" Angela interrupted. I shook my head. It had started to rain outside. The roof rattled in the wind. I concentrated on John.  
  
"When we arrived in the monastery, it was dark. The monk lead me in. The first hall was empty, noone was praying in front of the buddha statue I knew normally was surrounded by monks. I had visited the monastery once with Angela. The monk kept hurrying me up. We walked up the stairs, to the living quarters of the monks. A light was shining from the room of an elderly monk I had met on my previous visit. The one who told me to wipe my feet, wasn't he, Angie?"  
  
Angela nodded, though I wasn't sure if she nodded just to make John continue. She seemed to be as intrigued by the story as I was. It is seldom that one gets to hear stories about oneself.  
  
"Anyway, I followed my guide to the room. It was filled with monks in those orange or red robes you see everywhere. They were crowded around the only piece of furniture in the room - a bed. The monk who had quided me to the monastery lead me to the bed. The other monks gave us way. My guide must've been a senior monk. On the bed, there were you. I couldn't see you, just a lump under the grey, woolly blanket. A monk was standing on the head side of the bed. He spoke to me. He told they had heard a faint knock on the monastery door the previous night. It had been you, exhausted, thin as a stick, without food or water, and in a torn jacket, or piece of cloth, as he said. They had brought you in, fed and clothed you and put you to bed. Before you fell asleep my guide has asked where you came from. You had mentioned something about seeing a lake the shape of an eye from far up in the mountains. Then you had fallen asleep."  
  
I remember seeing the monastery from far away. It stood there, a block of houses on a hill in a plateau area. I was too tired, too hungry and thirsty to question what I was seeing. Without stopping to wonder whether it was a hallucination or a real, existing thing, I continued my slow walk towards it. I reached the door and knocked. Then I remember feeling light-headed, falling down to the snow that felt incredibly warm. After that - nothing.  
  
"You were in a terrible condition. You weighed the same as a prayer wheel, said one of the monks with a serious face. That morning they couldn't awaken you. They decided you needed to go home. They knew they needed help in getting you safely back to where you came from. So they came to us, the excavation team, the only group of foreigners in the area."  
  
I know the name of the monk who opened the door to me and who guided John in. It was told to me by a pilot aboard the flight to Kathmandu from Darchen. He was Lama Dorje, the high priest of the monastery. A famous man in the mountains.  
  
"As you probably are aware of, Tibetan monks of the remote villages aren't usually concerned with the outer world, so they made quite an exception with you."  
  
"Why?" I swallowed and asked. "You still didn't tell me about the name."  
  
"I was just getting to it." John finished his tea and asked for Angela for another one. "The monks led me closer to the bed and raised the mattress. I saw a young, European-looking woman with long, wet hair, burning with fever. You were very thin, as the monks had said. I'm no doctor, but I somehow guessed that your situation wasn't very good. You were asleep - you wouldn't wake up, said the monks. Lama Dorje, who turned out to be my guide, led me aside from the others, and spoke to me. He told me you had been sent to them."  
  
"Sent to them?" I asked, completely confused.  
  
"The lake you had seen, the one the shape of an eye, was eight hundred miles away. They believed noone could've made that journey without being led by Buddha and protected by spirits. The lake you had mentioned is Lake Manasarovar, next to Mount Kailash."  
  
"Mount Kailash?" I wasn't aware of the mountain's significance - I had never even heard of it.  
  
"It's one of the most sacred peaks of the Himalayas - the home of certain gods. It is protected by Taras, female, protective deities. They think you had been sent to them by Buddha."  
  
I couldn't hide my amusement. John wasn't sharing the emotion.  
  
"I wouldn't laugh if I were you. Strange things happen in the mountain - the laws of nature do not abide here, it seems. You, alone, survived eight hundred miles of alien terrain to arrive to a monastery. Near an excavation where someone speaking the local language was present. I think someone saving the world would fall to the category of coincidence, this feels like too much. You are a miracle."  
  
"Heroic tales aside, where did the name come from?" I couldn't treat myself as a godsend. It felt ridiculous, even after what happened in Cairo. True- saving the world might be a coincidence, but two big coincidences - what an understatement - in one lifetime? The British Statistical Office probably wouldn't let me in even if I tried. I'd be too much to swallow.  
  
"I asked if they knew your name. They called you Dvesagniprashamani's Lara; a Tara who protects from the fear of hatred and fire. Do you know about the Buddhist Taras?"  
  
"Not much."  
  
"There are eight Taras who protect from fear. They thought one of them was protecting you on your journey. Dvesagniprashamani. The one who protects you from the fear of hatred and fire."  
  
The thought was lovely - but of course I couldn't believe it. I'm not Buddhist, nor am I religious. But I do believe that there are things that are beyond the human mind. I've seen them - some call them Gods, some spirits. I think calling them Gods is a bit short-sighted, they probably make mistakes just like us. Shouldn't gods be perfect? The Europeans were gods to animistic people when they first arrived in South and Central America. They considered gods whatever they couldn't understand.  
  
I've seen spirits, and it hasn't succeeded in making me religious, so I doubt I will ever become suchlike.  
  
John, I and Angela sat silently. I wasn't interested in hearing what kind of things they had done to arrange me to kathmandu - I had heard what I had wanted. A faint voice was born in my head. A yearning. A longing to see once more the place I had begun my journey from. But before running anywhere, I decided to seek the monk we had been discussing. Lama Dorje. I suddenly realized there wasn't any point in finding him, it just felt important. I wanted to find the missing pieces of the puzzle. My career wasn't going to get any better, my romantic life was as dead as it ever was, and I was supposedly dead. What could be more logical than to refind the place and surroundings where the real me was born?  
  
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As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	3. Chapter 3

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Three  
  
We talked until very early morning, then I was told it was too late for me to return to my hotel so I slept on the couch. I was tired, but not only from the flight. I hated to admit it, but John's story had dug out some memories that are difficult to work through. I usually speak very positively about my experiences in Tibet, but only someone with the IQ of a half-eaten eggplant would swallow my attitude without chewing. Of course it was difficult out there for someone with no experience with the outdoors. My survival has been mentioned in a few magazine articles about me. I've silently approved of their way of treating my experiences - in the articles the crash and its following are always portrayed as if I somehow, like struck by lightning, turned from an upper-class brat to an adventurer. It doesn't work like that. And that is exactly the phase I would most like to forgot.  
  
At dawn I left, like a lover leaves from a family home. I didn't wake the Gilliams up. I walked on the lazy, empty streets alone.  
  
I wondered if there was any way I could have affected the Gilliams' decision to stay in Tibet even after their retirement. John had spoken about the monks' belief in the fact that I had been sent by a god of some sorts. Had I been a spiritual awakening to John, too? Had my journey led him to believe there was magic in these mountains? It almost felt like it. You never know where people get their kicks from. I shook my head and continued walking.  
  
I soon reached the small stupa located next to the market square. I decided to leave Kathmandu the same day. I had enough gear, I would only have to buy food, unless I found a guide who was willing to make all the arrangements for me. I waited on the almost empty market square and drank from a fountain. Soon after the sun had completely risen, the square soon became filled with merchants, donkey salesmen and women carrying plastic barrels of water. After two hours I had gotten myself a driver and a guide for the journey to Tokakeriby.  
  
We begun driving at noon. I marveled at my guide's speed of putting everything together. He knew places we could accommodate in, places we could eat in on the road. All I had to do was to say goodbye to Kathmandu, call the Gilliams and get my gear together. I left some of my things, including my carryable computer, over to the Gilliams, who kidnly promised to take care of them. I very rarely leave things to other people to take care of, but I had inevitably liked the Gilliams. I was ready to go exactly at noon, dressed in my usual hiking boots, two thick sweaters, and thick trousers.  
  
All the cars used in nepal are old, but reliable. Our driver's choice was an aged jeep with the back bumper a bit squeezed from collision with yaks, probably. The teethless guide, a smiling sherpa, assured me in poor English that the jeep had survived three drives across the whole Himalaya. Iwas a little sceptic. But it looked reliable enough, and we'd travel on the best road in West Tibet, built ten years after my unlucky adventure near Mount Kailash. I missed my Norton bike. I wondered if it had gotten in a poor condition, left in Heathrow airport's parking lot for three months. If someone had dared to steal it I woud pluck their eyeballs off. And that would be a promise.  
  
There aren't many roads in Tibet. The small network of lousy, muddy roads connects only the largest cities in Nepal and the Chinese Tibet along with important religious places such as Lhasa.  
  
We had a bit of a delay upon leaving. The driver began to warm up the motor as I and our guide started packing the car. I had packed my clothes in one bag and my other equipment in the other. The zipper had gotten jammed the same morning so I had to rip it off. I knew I should've packed my equipment in the other bag, but I had been in a slight hurry. My guide was just about to strap the last of the bags - the zipperless one - to the jeep, when he suddenly yelled to the driver, and pointed a finger at me.  
  
The barrel of my spare pistol was sticking out from the bag.  
  
The guide, a small man with very few teeth and with black, smutty hair walked up to me, continuing pointing me with a finger, and kept repeating the word 'trouble' to me. I had to use all my mimicking skills to assure him I had all the necessary permits - I did, but only in Britain and the USA - and that I wasn't going to hurt him or the driver. He calmed down after giving me a lecture in Tibetan. I understood no word of it, but I had a great time - the man was almost a metre shorter than I, and he was giving me a lecture. I wondered what he would do if something made him search the bag. My .18 Colt was the mildest thing he was going to find.  
  
I was once referred in an article in Archaeology Today as 'the gun-toting scavenger' by one of my colleagues. I was hurt. My line of work is one that includes weaponry, and naturally it annoys certain people. Certain people, who think real archaeology can't be anything that doesn't include a lot of dust and books. Jean seems to be one of them, sadly. I hate to call him a bookworm, but noone is yet to present me with a better word. I call him bookworm, he calls me a tomb raider. Cuts both ways.  
  
So we began our drive towards the first stop in Purang. It would take us two days, arguably, to reach Darchen, and from there it would be a three- hour drive along dangerous, icy roads to Tokakeriby. I asked the guide if he knew if there still was a monastery in the village, but he didn't know. Understandable enough - Tibet houses over twelve thousand monasteries altogether.  
  
Travelling in Tibet doesn't exactly offer the most versatile scenery in the world. It's either valley of mountain, everything is either grey or brown, unless you are climbing down a terraced valley. Our guide had picked us a horrible place to stay the first night - I decided to sleep on the floor in my sleeping bag after inspecting the bed for insects. The next day was also spent driving. We arrived in Darchen late that evening, and slept over in a lodge owned by the driver's sister. It was tolerable enough, though the food offered consisted mainly of yak butter. I finished off my stack of chocolate bars instead. As the guest, I was given the only bed in the house - it smelled as if a water buffalo had cleared a migraine in it, but it was soft and completely without insects.  
  
The third day began with a snowstorm. We had to wait for seven hours for it to clear. But we still had enough time to drive to Tokakeriby.  
  
I was excited, I have to admit. I was going to see again the village which had meant survival when I first arrived there fifteen years earlier. It had meant more than life itself to see the lonely stupa, the monastery walls, and a lonely herd of yaks. As we began driving from Darchen, a big village deep in the mountains towards a steep hill housing the only road to the Tokakeriby region, I got a bit worried. The road was icy, and it was still snowing heavily enough to reduce the driver's sight. I was beginning to feel cold in the jeep and if it continued snowing I would most definitely freeze myself badly before arriving in the village. I also had my doubts on whether we would reach our destination in just three hours.  
  
A complete stop came a half-an-hour after leaving Darchen. We were driving on a high altitude road between two peaks, Dalangan and Darchen-La when the driver hit the brakes, almost causing the car to turn ninety degrees.  
  
The road before the car was almost literally gone. An avalanche probably. It happens a lot in Tibet. The only way to get past the hole by car would be to accelerate, drive a little bit above the road level, and wish for the best. Going by foot would work perfectly, but we still needed to get the car across.  
  
The driver and the guide shook their heads in a mutual agreement. I jumped out of the car and gestured them to follow. The driver refused to try to drive the car over. I said I would do it. He was afraid of his car and wouldn't let go. Our guide remained silent and pessimistic. Adter arguing with the driver, who wanted to return to Darchen, I grew tired of it, and told him I would buy him a new car if I wrecked this one. He was exhilarated. He probably wished I did wreck the jeep. The driver and the guide backed away as I entered the driver's seat, started the engine, and backed away some thirty feet. Then I hit the accelerator, and hoped for the best. I was taking chances - but it's what i always do. You can't win without risking.  
  
After a few seconds I had driven thecar almost safely to the other side, using the hillside. The driver and the guide made it to the other side, this time they had an almost respectful gaze in their eyes. I swapped seats with the driver, and so we continued.  
  
As I had anticipated, we didn't reach Tokakeriby in three hours. It was getting dark as we parked the jeep in the village square. I thanked the driver and the guidem and gave them money to find us a place to sleep in. I started walking to warm myself up and to get a some kind of a look around before it got pitch dark.  
  
I again underestimated the quickness of darkness in the land. It comes in almost a second. When I could no longer see the nearest houses in the middle of the ascetic village, I returned to the car, climbed in and closed the door. I clapped my hands to regain some blood circulation in my fingers. My guide returned soon with the driver. He gestured me to get out of the car.  
  
"No sleep, Miss Croft. No sleep here," he said.  
  
"Great. What do we do now?" I asked, slamming the car door shut behind me. The driver took a step forward.  
  
"Monastere - fyv mile," he mumbled, barely understandably. I nodded. The monastery probably still existed and we had good chances of getting a place to sleep in there.  
  
The problem was the darkness. The jeep lights weren't as bright as needed, and the road, though located in a valley, was slippery. And it was snowing all the same. Soon the road would be blocked. I turned to the guide. "Can we go to the monastery?" "Yes. Yes, the monastery."  
  
We entered the car ins silence. I settled in the back seat, pulled my feet on the seat, and leaned on the window frame. I was dead tired.  
  
I woke to the sight of light. The motor wasn't running anymore, and someone was trying to shake me awake. The guide. Someone was standing behind him. A monk.  
  
I fluttered my eyelashes to get rid of the sleepiness, and climbed out of the car. We had arrived on the monastery courtyard. I heard faint flapping - prayer flags in the icy wind. The darkness was overwhelming. Through the clouds fragment of black sky were visible, and I could see more stars in a glimpse than in a lifetime in Britain. We were standing on a square area in the snow. Where the sort of a platform ended, a steep hill fell to the valley floor far below. On the other side of the monastery probably existed the plain I remember walking across. I walked away from the car.  
  
Everywhere - falling snow, the stars, a quiet sound of ritual trumpets from another monastery miles and miles away. For a person like me who's lived her life in the so-called civilized world, that kind of peace is overwhelming, frightening. It's the power that brings me to places like Tibet time to time. I turned back to the group of people following my movements with their gaze. I spoke to the monk. He was smiling.  
  
"Do you speak English?"  
  
The monk nodded. "Well-come," he said a bit awkwardly. "Lama Dorje waits."  
  
"How can he be expecting me?" I whispered to the wind, but the monk had already started climbing a low staricase to the monastery door, holding an oil lamp. I followed him and behind came my driver and the guide.  
  
We entered the monastery, and as the monk pushed the door closed behind us, I repeated my question. The elderly monk smiled at me, united his hands in an honoring gesture, and replied, "Lama Dorje waits fifteen years." He then led us to a side door, and stopped. Another monk was waiting in the hall. "Come with me," he said to the men following me. I was gestured to follow the first monk. He lead me to a small chamber and left it, closing the door and leaving me alone in the dimness.  
  
On the center of the room sat an old monk, concentrating in a silent prayer. Wondering if the main purpose of the situatoin was to test if I could behave myself in a holy place, I removed my shoes and left them at the doorstep. Shivering because of the ice-cold floor under my tennis socks, I walked closer to the monk. He didn't seem to notice me. I kneeled down on the floor in the middle of the room, and sat, my head bowed down.  
  
After some minutes I felt a hand touching my shoulder. The old, stooped monk is an orange robe was standing behind me, with a strange expression on his face. It was a sort of a combination of fatherly friendliness, sadness and amusement. "Please, stand up, Lara."  
  
I stood up, plucking up the courage to speak freely. Most people feel strange when talking to monks, priests or other kind of deeply religious people. I am no exception., We're all somehow afraid that we will lose in intelligence to those peculiar people who dedicate their lives to things that they can't see or prove.  
  
"Lama Dorje?" I asked.  
  
"Yes. Welcome back." He spoke very good English. A lot had changed, ti seemed, in fifteen years.  
  
"Thank you. You still remember my name?"  
  
The old man took my hand in his. "How could I forget? Evening prayer, an ordinary evening, when suddenly, there you are. 800 miles alone. A lot of water under bridge since, yes?"  
  
I nodded silently. The monk lead me to sit in a chair on the other end of the room. He settled down in a praying position on the floor next to me. Wanting to be as polite as I could, I abandoned the chair and sat on the ever-so-cold floor. Lama Dorje didn't let go of my hand.  
  
"I knew you would come."  
  
"That makes you the second one to say that. It's like a conspiracy. Why is it that almost everyone except me seems to have known about this journey beforehand?"  
  
Lama Dorje was content with just smiling mysteriously, and replying, "We cannot know the paths of the gods, but we can anticipate them."  
  
"Milarepa." I recognized the philosoper and holy figure who had said Lama's phrase.  
  
"You know your history."  
  
I was feeling a little confused again. "Lama, if you knew I was coming here, do you know why I am here?"  
  
Lama Dorje simply nodded.  
  
"I would like to know about it."  
  
The Lama clapped his hands together. He stood up. "All at the right time. Now is the right time to retreat to bed, my guest. In the morning you are invited to join our meditation. After that, weäll see about your questions."  
  
The Lama walked to the door, closing it behind him and leaving me in the chamber alone. I climbed up from the floor. My whole body ached.  
  
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As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	4. Chapter 4

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Early the next morning, I snuck out of the monastery for a morning run - my first for months. In Egypt a special morning run was not a necessity - I did plenty of running anyway.  
  
The plain behind the monastery was frozen, but snow wasn't everywhere. I had heard wind howling the previous night, so it must've blown away some of the thick cover of snow that had trampled down from the skies. A lonely stupa was slumped about forty feet from the left monastery door. It was made of a white suibstance - white rock perhaps. It had a double-raised dais, very unusual for a Tibetan stupa. I've seen thousands of stupas in my career - perhaps even a greater number than that of tombs. They are always a peculiar sight and despite all my readings and research into the matter, I still don't have a firm grasp of their full meaning and function. They are landmarks, placed in the most obscene locations of the world - next to ancient roads, for instance.  
  
This stupa's pinned head had aslanted.  
  
Once a stupa had been a comforting sight. I just couldn't quite put my finger on the occasion - it must've been Tibet, fifteen years ago, otherwise it wouldn't probably felt like such a strong memory.  
  
I continued my run across the frozen, dark-brown plain towards the mountains. Tokakeriby lies on the floor of a very large valley, surrounded my quite soft-shaped mountains. My feet left no marks in the hard ground. My breath followed me as clouds of diffusing water, and my sweater felt sweaty and cold. I wondered if there was any possibility of a shower or an other kind of wash-up in the monastery. After an hour's run I returned back, walking. I few monks greeted me silently as I squeezed past them when going through the doors.  
  
I got inside and left my boots beside outdoor. I tiptoed to the first hall - the floor was cold and dusty and I only had a limited amount of warm, clean tennis socks. A two-metre wide ray of yellow light came through the window.  
  
I heard silent clattering of feet and other particles on a stony floor. You know, the kind of sound one could hear in a tomb with flowing water. I walked between the thin, crooked columns and enjoyed the silence. The ceiling was made of thin treetrunks and the floor was sand and stone. I loved the simplicity of the hall - it's ascetic charm. On the other side stood the same fat, smiling buddha that I had seen when entering the monastery the night before. I started wondering what it would feel like living in a place like that all my life. To me, it would mean a struggle of getting used to just being quiet, remaining in one place for a long time. The thought frightened me. I've walways respected monks - many people seem to have the same kind of respect for this silent brotherhood, they just pray, and... exist. Their existence is so simple, yet so incredibly powerful. It seems that they achieve just by thinking and praying what we westerners try to achieve in a lifetime of fighting, worrying, working and suffering and almost positively fail.  
  
I had to face it - Lama Dorje had made me feel miserable. To him I was probably an impatient, anxious and overly curious person. He was patient, wise and experienced in life. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd made a fool of myself by demanding him to give me answer to my questions. Can you make a fool of yourself in front of a monk? Aren't they supposed to be tolerant and peaceful? What a sterotypic.  
  
I stopped by a wall to inspect more closely a wooden shrine that had been sunk in the wall when building the hall. It had two very highly-detailed, carved doors. I pushed the other one open with my forefinger, carefully not to injury the intricate laquering.  
  
Inside the shrine, there stood a six-handed buddha statue made of copper. It was beautiful, and I couldn't help but let my gloomy mood fall on it. I have spent a lifetime recovering and protecting such treasures, yet I can never understand the full significance of those peacefully smiling faces, and I could never even learn. I was born Christian - the secrets of Buddhism and the significance of a smile, a certain form of The Buddha could only manifest themselves as raw, cold texts and pictures in books.  
  
Secretly, I envied the monks for their faith in something so beautiful it must've been too complicated for my poor mind.  
  
Archaeologists are archaeologists. We pretend to know everything about things that will never even be at an arm's reach. I closed the shrine doors, and backed away too steps. I did a karate bow towards the shrine, and became mildly amused by my actions afterwards.  
  
What I didn't know was that I had been watched by Lama Dorje, who laid a hand on my shoulder when I was just about to turn and return to my bedchamber.  
  
"Admiring our Kye Dorje, are you?" he asked politely, stepping to my side to take a look at the shrine himself.  
  
"I apologize. I know I should not have opened it."  
  
"Do not worry. I came to have a word with you," he explained, and I turned to face him. I made a mental note to shut my mouth and let him do the talking. He coughed, and his dark-bourgogne-red robes made a quiet swish.sound as he raised his hand to cover his mouth. His hand were old, thin and wrinkled - the hands of a very old man. Then he continued.  
  
"You asked me why you have come. But have you asked yourself this?"  
  
I smiled at the Buddha in the shrine. "I'm a little too impatient to do that, Lama Dorje."  
  
"Ah, I know your impatience," the old man said. He took my hand in his and smiled, probably his widest smile. "Sitting around seems too much for you. I saw you take a run this morning."  
  
"Running is my zen, Lama." I joked midly, hoping that I didn't touch the wrong subject.  
  
"We all have our zens, Lara."  
  
I sighed. Lama Dorje carefully shut the shrine, and we set out walking on the corridor towards the kitchens.  
  
"I will answer all of your questions now," Lama announced, leaving me silent again. Now, that I just calmed down in a way, he gives me all the opportunities to do what I always do - get the facts and run.  
  
"Lama Dorje, have you spoken to John Gilliam since 1989?"  
  
"Yes, I have. He and his wife come here every second year."  
  
The Gilliams hadn't told me this. I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with me. Then I shushed myself - I was being very selfish. Not everything in the world had to do with me.  
  
"They come every second year to ask if you've visited us."  
  
There went a good excersize of self-restraint down to the sewer. "I met them in Kathmandu."  
  
"It must've made them very happy," Lama Dorje commented politely, and made me think again about all the films featuring Tibetan monks who, with every single word they said, seemed to outrun all the Greek philosophers at once in religious wisdom. Was there supposed to be something of wisdom greater than life in Lama Dorje's last comment? I was angry at myself for letting Lama Dorje make me feel so frustrated. I never knew what to say when speaking with him.  
  
"Lama Dorje, why am I here?"  
  
"We have something to ask from you, Lara."  
  
"That's not what brought me here. I don't believe in telepathy."  
  
"You came here to pay a debt, did you not?" Lama Dorje asked, his tone almost a little reprimanding.  
  
"You saved me. What should I say?" I didn't notice soon enough that my noise had become a little louder.  
  
"Please do not raise your voice here. This is a house of prayer. You are very impatient. And full of life."  
  
What was that supposed to mean? Isn't everyone in the world full of life? What else can you be than either full of life or dead?  
  
"Impatience and intolerance are signs of fire, Lara. You feel you have so much to do, so much to see, you're in an ever-accelerating hurry. You shall not worry, I will tell you everything you want to know."  
  
I hoped he would relieve me from my unholy impatience by telling me how I was supposed to help the monks.  
  
"There is a relic we're all hoping you to find. It will be difficult."  
  
"What is this relic? A Buddhist one?"  
  
"It is a relic that every human being could consider a piece of their religion. It is priceless. It is called The Sadhana."  
  
Lama Dorje put him hands inside his robe sleeves. It was cold in the kitchen, where a young boy, a monk also, was preparing some kind of porridge made from rice and dry vegetables.  
  
"The Sadhana?" I asked. I had never heard of it - except... That box in my hotel room in Kathmandu! Sadhana had been the word that had left me puzzled.  
  
The young boy smiled and nodded at me and gave me a cup of rice. I united my palms in a greeting manner. Lama Dorje looked at me, pleased.  
  
"We are confident that only you can find this Sadhana. The journey will be long and appalling in ways."  
  
"Where should I begin? I know the Sadhana's in West Tibet."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"I saw something, a box of some sorts with the word carved on it with a map of West Tibet."  
  
Lama Dorje just smiled mysteriously and changed the approach to the subject.  
  
"Dvesagniprashamani's Lara, the Sadhana is located near Lake Manasarovar, the Holy Lake next to Mount Kailash."  
  
I thanked Lama Dorje, finished my rice and returned to my bedchamber, passing my driver and guide on the way, on their way to breakfast. The location of the plane crash. I would have to return there and see it all again. The thought made me heavy-hearted.  
  
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As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	5. Chapter 5

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Five  
  
After two more days in the monastery, I left to seek the Sadhana on my own. I felt being set-up. Some unknown force, it seemed, had called me to Tokakeriby, to hear that my fate was to walk eight hundred miles to perhaps a certain death just, so it seemed, for the sheer fun of it.  
  
It was a matter of trust. I had to trust someone who wasn't even there. Lama Dorje.  
  
He and the other monks joined me in the beginning of my journey, but just for a short distance. They walked with me to the end of the valley, and gave me a map where canyons, valley and bridges suitable for walking were located. It still hadn't snowed more, but the ground was frozen and slippery.  
  
On my journey years ago I had climbed over many lesser mountains, this time I would have a map with me to lead me along rivers and canyons. It still, luckily, wasn't full winter. The walk would take me approximately eight or nine days. I had food to match ten days. After that - how would I get back? What would I eat? Wasn't the Sadhana's temple or whatever supposed to be in the middle of nowhere? It was if I smelled something burning in the plot. Still, I couldn't help feeling relieved. No more socializing attempts with the monks, I was on my own, with noone to do things for me, noone to be responsible for, noone to blame for the mistakes I make.  
  
The first canyon following Darchen valley had been saved from snow. A river slowly made its way towards the end of it - I followed the river. It was clear - rushing down from somewhere up in the hills. Erosion had carved the riverbank hills into something resembling the landscape of the moon. It was like a forest sculptures from porous rock. The larger poles of rock would form a lovely climbing terrain. Perhaps I would try them out sometime.  
  
Another canyon followed in five hours. The sun was setting, and I decided to keep hiking until only the highest peaks would be lit by sunlight. This valley was dark-brown and dismal. Deep, lined by mountains the same colour as the sand, it looked very desolate and sad. I wouldn't have wanted to camp there but I didn't seem to have any choice - the sun was setting. A lonely bird - seemingly a vulture, circled over the brown valley in lazy circles, as if guarding my putting up of the tent. I unpacked it, laid the metal batten on the ground and inspected the seals in case of rips. Everything seemed to be in condition, so I took to digging holes for the battens. I used my knife to that, feeling very sorry for the blade. After digging the holes I hit the batten in - hurting my finger to a sharp edge in one of them. I sucked my finger so that the flowing of blood would stop, and wondered, following the ever-circling bird with my gaze, if it could smell the blood. How accurate would its smell be, when the sole purpose of its existence was to discover food.  
  
I finished my tent by the time it had become completely dark. I lit a fire - no worries about forest fires, it was cold enough - made some soup, and enjoyed my lonely meal, twisting myself deeper to the soft layers of fabric of my jacket. I had kept the bomber jacket as a memento from a flight that had been, to say, eventful. I had crashed, once again, in Tibet. Hopefully not too far away from my destination - the Barkhang Monastery.  
  
After my meal I slipped into my sleeping bag. Sleep never comes easy on the first night alone. I'm always far too alert, listening to everything, with one finger on the safety clip of my gun all the time. I enjoy the rush of adrenaline an unidentified sound awakes in me. A distant relative of mine once questioned me about my line of work and asked if I was ever terrified, camping somewhere alone. I said I got scared sometimes, but he wouldn't accept it. He had meant terrified, and that's what he wanted to get fished out of me. I said that scared is okay, it helps you stay alive. Terrified turns you into a pillar of salt. I know I could get terrified, but fear is the only emotion in me I seem to be good at controlling. Fear makes me angry, and that's bloody useful, I told my companion in conversation, but he insisted that surely I sometimes got really frightened? I laughed and said no. Then he made his point by saying that one could see almost anything in desolate places, like UFOs or spirits. It sounded ridiculous. Spirits can wonder this Earth as much as they like to please themselves, but if they come across my path my wrath will be immediate. UFOs? I'll tell him whether I got scared or not when I see one.  
  
I have my guns and that's enough for now. If I die in the line of duty, I will at least die in the hands of something greater than me. It will be an honorable death.  
  
Thank God I didn't die when pitted against Seth. That would have been a shameful death. The poor chap hardly had any brains at all.  
  
Sleep overcame me eventually.  
  
Hours later, something startled me awake. A nise of some sorts. When sleeping alone, I'm very sensitive to any kind of unexplained noise. My hands struggled free from the sleeping bag and grabbed my pistol. I carefully and quietly unfastened the safety clip, and crept completely out of my bag. I heard the noise again. It was a combination of an animal yelp and the sound of heavy, dragging steps. I zipped open the tent and almost leapt outside. I clicked on my flashlight and pointed it out to the night. It was cloudy so the darkness felt overwhelming. Wherever I pointed, the only thing I saw was grey, endless, ice-covered sand. I did not want to leave my tent, so I just stood and waited. Things and noises like that don't make me particularly frightened, quite the contrary. They're interesting, unless sthey become something of a threat to my life. Like an oviraptor, despite how little.  
  
Suddenly I heard footsteps somewhere further away. The realization that the strange creature was very much of human origin made it less interesting and a tad bit more annoying. I didn't leave the tent. The footsteps continued but didn't come any closer. I heard as if someone was panting, and then the clattering of metal bars. Sounded like someone putting up a tent. I suffocated a yawn. If someone wanted to put up a tent near mine, they'd be welcome to do that. I had my guns ready for assassins.  
  
And campers. When it came to that. I heard nothing more. Whoever had it been, he had obviously no intention of approaching me in the near future. The opposite really - he was obviously trying to keep very quiet. And robbers don't usually put up tents near yours. I went back to my tent and got swept away by sleep again.  
  
According to the map it was the rope bridge of Zangla. Hanging low above the raging, muddy Sangpo river. It looked wobbly - all rope bridges do - and as if it could rattled down to the river any minute. On the other side laid a very low mountain range called The Nangchen which I would have to cross.  
  
I had serious doubts about the bridge. Loose ends of rope hang down from it, and it sway violently in the raw wind. I took of my heavy backpack, and took a step on the bridge to test it. It felt steady enough, but I didn't want to take any changes. I took a climbing hook and kept it open with a branch I found on the ground. I strapped on my backpack, and, keeping the hook in a position that it would attach to the bridge if I, or the bridge, was to collapse to the fastly flowing river. I took careful steps, as the bridge was in movement all the time. In the middle I stopped, and inured myself by looking down to the depths of the river. Time to time, large whirls appeared on the surface. They would easily pull cattle - perhaps even humans, to the bottom of the river. Canyon rivers tend to be deep. I forced away an excited shudder, and continued to the end of the long bridge.  
  
Clouds spotted the sky. I continued towards Mount Kailash.  
  
Two days later, about six in the evening, I reached a narrow valley, that was low enough from the sea level for it to nurture trees. A few low pines formed a tiny forest in the valley, making it look like a safe place for animals. There are some even subtropical vellays in Tibet, but I've yet to come across one. Seems like Tibet only wants me to see it's remorseful face, the one that's during daytime burned by the sun, and at night illuminated by the incredibly cold-looking Moon. I made a camp under the pines, and just sat on a rock, just resting my feet and mind. Far away, near a canyon, was a large greyish spot that remotely looked like a village. It wasn't on the map, but the map did look quite old, so it could've been built almost recently. I wouldn't go and see what the spot was, it would cause an extra day's hike. My route would continued following low mountains, lakes, canyons and valleys. As my journey advanced, I started thinking more and more about my route in 1989, the year of the plane crash. It almost seemed as if I had walked a straight line from mount Kailash to Tokakeriby. It felt ridiculous to believe that I had been lead by some unidentified power, but still I wondered about my route. What if there was some kind of a power, a protecting spirit of some sorts, to guide worthy individuals to safety? I almost laughed at my sentimentality. Coincidences happen, not miracles. I decided to go for a wash-up in a nearby stream before it once again got dark.  
  
The water was awfully cold, but by biting my teeth, I even managed to wash my hair. Drying it in the pleasantly warm valley air with a towel, I slowly returned to my campsite. As I approached my tent I got a sudden feeling that not everything was right. I draped the towel across my shoulder, and unfastened my holster clips.  
  
I was certain I had zipped closed the tent door, but now the thick plastic door was flapping in the wind. Perhaps an animal?  
  
I snuck closer. No movement, no sounds, nothing at all. What had been there probably had disappeared. When I was certain enough that the possible intruders were gone, I entered my tent. The sight made me gasp in horror. Half of my food was gone. I got out of the tent and just stood for awhile, trying to clear my head. It couldn't have been an animal - animals can't use zippers. Nor can animals search backpacks and put everything they take out but not take with them in an almost neat pile on someone's backpack.  
  
I listed the damage. My rope was gone - so was my swiss army knife. At least whoever had been to my tent had left my sleeping bag alone.  
  
The biggest catastrophy was the food. I came out of the tent, and used my hand as a sunshade as I tried to gaze towards the spot on the other side of the valley. A thin wisp of smoke floated upwards from it. So it indeed was a village.  
  
Bloody clever. Sneaking up on people. I thought about pulling my pistols, walking to the village despite how long it would take, and practice my target shooting on the bottoms of some sherpas.  
  
I inhaled deeply, and snapped close the press-studs of the holsters. That kind of action wouldn't be a very smart move.  
  
My situation was grim - I had food for one day, I was at least 600 miles away from Tokakeriby. I had my map, but I still had a decision to make. I could either go to the village and plead for help, or I could try to find the Sadhana and starve on the way if necessary. I cursed under my breath and kicked a rock. I kicked it again. And a couple times more, until I slumped on my knees in a sudden attack of something that almost seemed like despair - what was I going to do? Give up and ask for help, or fight until I'd win or lose. I had just returned from a very difficult trip to Egypt. I was presumed dead. I had things to take care of home. I was again, almost penniless, as saving the world doesn't pay much about nothing, and I had no family.  
  
You know me. Guess which alternative I chose.  
  
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As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	6. Chapter 6

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter six  
  
I was hungry. So hungry the sight of a human being it would have been highly plausible for me to consider a career in vampyrism. I was also thirsty, but that was more easily helped than my hunger. I had a can of peas - the clicheed last resort food - and about one day to go.  
  
I had left the Hangadara valley where I had my little incident in as good as a mood one can have after being robbed somewhere behind God's back. My backpack felt lighter - albeit for reasons that were too morbid to think about. I had been robbed. What a god-awful cliche. I knew Murphy's law - whatever can happen, it will. I had a desire to give my own head a good kick - I had been careless for leaving my things without guard. I never do that. I had thought I was alone.  
  
It was difficult to admit, but I felt a little scared when walking down the first hill after Hangadara valley. I felt as if someone was chasing after m, following, spying on me. It's an easy feeling to catch in the subway, but it was almost new to me in its purest form. Gradually, my anger had mildened, and I could continue with a calm mind. It took seventy miles until I was able to assure my mind that me chance of revenge had passed long ago.  
  
Hunger started gradually creeping in and giving me a lot more to think about than robbers in the middle of a Tibetan mountainside. The whole thing began to sound like a James Bond novel, and I abandoned the scene in my mind. It was time to continue.  
  
Valley after valley, I walked, until I lost both my count and my location on the map. It's funny how all the mountains start to look all the same when you're seen too many of them. I walked long without knowing where I was. As I had been doing for seven hundred miles, I just walked, my hope crumbling piece by piece with every step. Not the hope of survival but the hope of finding The Sadhana.  
  
The hill I was walking that afternoon started curving upwards. It became quite steep, and I considered seriously the thought of really, for once, trying to find myself on the map. Then I discovered that I was near some kind of an edge. Again, I stripped of my backpack. I walked to the edge and looked down, expecting to see another range of mountains - I had almost began to hate mountains by then - but what I saw was something quite different.  
  
It was a lake. I grabbed a stone, dropped it off the cliff. It fell to the water and disappeared deep into the depths. Without hesitation or sensible thinking, I ripped off my gunbelt and dove off the cliff. If I died of a broken neck, I wouldn't at least starve to death.  
  
I was greeted by the coldest water I've yet to experience in my life. Forget the Andes and the mayas' sacrificial wells, forget all about the Antarctica, that water was cold. I screamed as I do, and continued screaming as I surfaced. When water is cold enough it burns. I swam to the shore. The water was clear, turqoise by colour, a lot darker than the sea water in Bermuda or Borneo. I rose from the water and sat on the beach. Dripping wet, I begun thinking about warming up. I had to climb up to get my gear. Now I had the time to see what kind of a cliff I had jumped from. It was steep. And high. But a hill next to it looked promising. I began climbing, my wet shoes slipping on the rocks, and the sharp stones ripping up my palms. It didn't hurt. My hands were blue with coldness. I was shaking with cold as I reached my backpack on the windy cliff. Awarding myself with the title of the most stupid and irresponsible person in the whole of the Himalayas, I stripped off my wet clothes and slipped into my sleeping back. I've never been so cold in my life. A weaker person would perhaps have passed out. I had gotten my gun and paid for it. Gradually I warmed up.  
  
Don't take me the wrong way here, but diving off the cliff was important. It made me go on. I ate half of my peas that night and decided that if I died out there - it wouldn't be of hunger. I wasn't feeling too heroic, but I knew that if I found what I was looking for the following day, everything else would settle quite nicely. Of course, if I didn't find the Sadhana, and there was noone to help me nearby, I would die. Now that's a thought for a lonely night on a clifftop in a tent surrounded by the Himalayas.  
  
The next morning, I had serious trouble lifting my eyelids. The ever- present wind whistled louside - a lot louder than the previous evening. I remember twisting around in my sleeping bag, my back felt sore and cold. I slowly unzipped the bag, adjusting myself for waking up properly.  
  
The wind whistled. I realized it was also snowing heavily. I was suddenly wide awake. I was in a hurry. I had to seek cover before the whole tent was to get buried in snow. I quickly shoved all my things to my backpack, and rambled out of the tent. I had been right - it had already snowed a half foot. The storm hit my face as I turned it to the wind. I was afraid my map would get wet and unreadable I started walking down the hill towards the lake.  
  
On the lake surface was a thin coating of ice. I've never seen a lake freeze that fast. I hurried myself down. I nearly trampled over as my boot hit a small rock covered by snow. I got to the lakeshore, and kneeled under a projecting rock. I dug out the map from my breast pocket and inspected it. Soon my legs started giving away so I had to sit. I was dead tired as I was running out of food. I didn't recognize the lake in the map so I folded the map and put in back in my pocket. It was time to evaluate the situation.  
  
I didn't know where I was. A thunderstrom was catching up with me. The only significant landmark around was the lake.  
  
A sudden thought rushed through my malnutritioned brain. I checked the map again. And wondered how I could've been so bloody stupid. I was standing next to Lake Manasarovar, and behind me, in a direction I had somehow missed, stood Mount Kailash. It had exactly the kind of a white pinnacle that the map picture featured. Its peak was the shape of a pyramid top.  
  
I started walking again, my backpack more heavy than ever.  
  
Mount Kailash. What then? A cross was marked on my map, but it could mean anything short of the west side of the mountain to a single rock. I didn't even want to start thinking that if I never found the Sadhana, would I ever find a way back home, or wherever I was going?  
  
I need not say again that I was tired. I discarded my backpack below the mountain - Mount Kailash was small, compared to many others. I took a sip from my water bottle that I had filled with the water from the holy lake.  
  
Around me, nothing but mountains. I sat down on the ground.  
  
"WHAT NEXT?" I yelled. "WHY AM I HERE?"  
  
Only an echo answered. I was as alone as one can be. If I ever was afraid, it would have been then. But no, I can't say that I was. I just felt being pitter against something that I couldn't even see. An invisible assassin. A mountain. The wind. There was noone to answer.  
  
I felt strangely peaceful. There was noone in the world who could affect my situation in any way. My fate was in mine and the mountains' hands. It was still snowing but the wind had calmed. I had once seen a movie about a teenaged girl who had deaf parents. She'd once told her father that when snow fell, it made the whole world silent. Her father had said it was probably the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. I agreed.  
  
It was twilight because of the clouds. A shadow leaked on the mountainside. I left my backpack and ran towards it. It didn't go anywhere. My feet made no sound as I approached the shadow. In my eyes it soon descended into a square of darkness. Then a shrine of some sorts. Then I realized it was a cave. I ran back to my nackpack with wobbly legs and dragged it to the cave entrance. Leaving it just inside the entrabce to avoid snow wetting it, I dug out a flare from its front pocket, and entered the darkness. The entrance lead to a small, stony room. The room dissolved into a narrow corridor. The cave wasn't man-made. My flare died so I switched on my flashlight, which seemed to work despite all the odds.  
  
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As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	7. Chapter 7

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
The corridor sloped downwards. I tried to be careful not to slip, for it steepened with every step, and if I fell, the cause would be a long, painful slide down to darkness. I tried to grip the walls but they were lacking of edges. After a good three hundred feet I saw a step below me. I stepped down carefully, and then stopped to search my surroundings.  
  
The underground chamber was huge. On three corners of it were deep pits with sharp stalagmites in the bottom. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, I dodged them while walking to avoid them colliding painfully with my forehead. In the middle of the chamber was a sort of a walkway that seemed man-made. I followed it to the end of the chamber, my flashlight sparkling off crystals in the walls. Then suddenly there was no walkway. I stopped hastily, and sand from under my boots poured into nothingness. In front of me was a pit the size of an average family car. I tried to reach my flashlight hand as far as I could, and with trouble, I could see the other end of the pit.  
  
I was in my own territory. This I could do. I strapped my flashlight to my belt, and measure the lenght of the pit by throwing a couple of stones to the other side. Then I gathered some speed, and jumped, grabbing the other end with my hands. I was left dangling from the edge. I pulled myself up, the sandstone scraping my arms. Congratulating myself for a job well done, I unstrapped the flashlight, and continued forward.  
  
In the next chamber I was greeted by an eerie glow. IN the middle of the chamber was, again, a pit. Blue flames rose from it. I'm no chemist, but I recognized the smell floating around. Oxides of lead.The fire must've been burning there for centuries. Lead burns with a blue flame, and it places where oxygen isn't plentiful, it burns slowly. I walked past the pit, and suddenly I heard a loud noise, like an explosion from behind my back. I turned as quickly as my reflexes were able to turn me, and realized the blue flames had engulfed the whole back wall of the room. I ran forward, the light from my flashlight jumping around as I leapt over smaller rocks. I turned to see that the whole chamber was now in flames, but the flames didn't seem to reach any further than the doorstep. I kneeled down to retie my left shoelace, and the continued. After some minutes of darkness the corridor came to a total cul-de-sac. An opaque wall blocked the whole way. I pointed my flashlight up the wall - there was a large opening in the wall about eight feet up. But there was no way to reach it. I tried to jump and grab the edge, knowing that it was all in vain - it was just too high. I cursed my robbers silently again and swore to play ball with their heads if I ever came across them again. They'd taken my rope. I then tried climbing the wall, the result being landing on my bottom a half dozen times and a cloud of curses when the actual falling happened. I was presented with a brain teaser again, but I wasn't in the mood. My muscles hurt from eight days of marching around with minimal food, my mind was empty except for negative thoughts, and there I stood, next to am unclimbable wall after walking eight hundred miles to reach it. Talk about hard luck. I often say I make my own luck. Some luck I had made that time.  
  
I sat in the darkness for awhile, listening to rats squattling around eight feet above my head in the opening. I decided to try and win the mountain with my head. There must've been another solution. A lever perhaps? I had seen no levers, and the cave didn't seem man-made, so there was nowhere to hide one. Staircase that had rottened away? Possible, but where were the remains? No smoke without the fire, they say. Levitation? Wasn't that the national sport in India? I settled down in the corner, leaned my head on the hard rock and kept thinking until I fell asleep.  
  
I didn't wake up to a strange noise. I woke up when something hit my head. The other end of a rope. I jumped up, guns pointing at the first possible direction - upwards. Keeping an eye on the opening, I grabbed my flashlight from the floor and cleared my throat.  
  
"WHO IS IT? ANSWER ME!" I yelled, and noticed that the thing that had hit my head indeed was the other end of a rope. I yelled again, using all three words of Tibetan I know, one of them supposingly a curse - "you yak-kissing claypot", or something of similar level of insult - and finally, a head peered over the opening. It was the smiling face of a relatively old monk. I lowered my guns.  
  
"I don't believe it. I don't believe that I walked over three ranges of mountain to discover a cave that has already been discovered."  
  
"Not by you it hasn't", the monk said playfull, in very much understandable English.  
  
I pointed my flashlight to his eyes. On purpose. "When I feel a sudden urge to hike eight hundred miles in the Tibetan winter, I'll be sure to inform you. Be a dear and cut the crap, will you?"  
  
The monk's face disappeared. Great, I had insulted this simple man and now he's leaving me here. Jolly good. This story would be a killer in the next museum banquet. Assuming I ever had the never to tell it. But my sarcasm was unnecessary. The monk's footsteps approached the area again, and in a second a fittingly long piece of ladder was lowered to where I was standing. I could've kept up appearances and used the rope, but I'm only human, so I took the ladder. Up in the opening, I opened my mouth to say a shallow thank-you-for-help, but there noone was up there. Cursing under my breath, I started running along the dark corridor. After awhile it became dimly lit, and I heard footsteps ahead of me. I kept running, wand when I could see well enough not to run to the walls, I stopped to switch off my flashlight. The tunnel came to an end - a dead one. Wondering what kind of an optical trick the monk has used to get rid of me, I started inspecting the interior walls. I patted them in case oif levers or pressure pads. I stroked them in search of some kind of seams in the rock but found nothing. Until my hand found a wet spot. I pressed my finger on it and felt cool water trickling from inside the rock. I turned, and swithed on my flashlight. When there's water somewhere, it might be flowing from an underground river. And underground rivers often carve caves if the rock is porous enough. In the opposite wall, another source of trickling water. I tried to touch it with my finger, but noticed that I could see my finger as a mirroring picture when I placed it over the spot. There was no water trickling - it was a mirror placed on the wall. I traced the edges with some help from my flashlight, and soon I could reach a large mirror off its hooks. My mind was whirling in a very positive way - what on Earth might they be hiding in a place like this? I squeezed myself past the mirror into another dark tunnel.  
  
The tunnel dissolved itself to a huge chamber. I arrived in the west side of it, above an underground river glittering somewhere far below. Above me, thousands of sparkling stalactites, like stars, lit by light coming somewhere outside the cave. I pointed my flashlight into the darkness and discovered hundreds of formations of helictites and stalactites. They were both yellow and white in colour - hanging like draped curtains over the chamber. The river flowed somewhere below.  
  
I was standing on a wooden walkway. It felt steady - steadier than the rope bridge five days earlier. It felt suprisingly steady, considering that it must've been built hundreds of years ago. Slowly, memorizing every detail of the cave, I walked forward, to the other end of the chamber. It is very rarely that I get to go treasure-hunting in caves as magnificent as that one.  
  
I honestly felt sorry to abandon the chamber and to move on. But the chances of coming to another chamber like that were high, so I continued. The next corridor - how many had there been already? - wasn't very long. It ended in a small room lit by candles and scent sticks. A soft, sweet smell floated around.  
  
On the rear end of the small cave chamber was the young monk I had seen. He was seeted in front of an altar built next to the back wall. He was deeply in prayer, but his voice became a little more quiet when I approached the altar so he must've had noticed me. Here the stone was hard - I couldn't quite put my finger on an explanation how the previous chamber been such a palace of calcite rock. I stopped and stood four feet away from the altar. Unconsciously, I let my gaze wonder around, in search of levers, secret openings or other kinds of hiding places for the Sadhana. I was relieved that there was someone with me - it was a sign that I wasn't too far from food and sleep.  
  
The monk gathered his ropes and rose from the floor. He turned to face me, smiling. He was quite young - probably in his twenties. His face was frost- bitten, and his whole body told of friendliness.  
  
Inner peace even, perhaps.  
  
"Welcome," he said, gesturing me to come closer. I nodded, smiling curiously, and a bit confused if he thought I was worthy to approach the altar. Some monks are very strick about their altars, I've noticed. I once avoided a death by decapitation running when I accidentally got too close to an altar in Borneo. I walked closer to this mystery man.  
  
"Thank you," I said. He offered me a waterskin. I drank and wiped my mouth in my sleeve. A lizard crept past my left leg. There had to be another entrance to the cave close.  
  
"You have come a long way. Did you find what you were looking for?" The monk asked. A cell in my brain found its match. "No, I haven't, actually. It's you who's been following me around, ain't that right?"  
  
He shook his head. In some countries shaking of the head means yes. I couldn't remember how it was in Tibet.  
  
"It wasn't me. It was brother Cheng, who I know very well. He isn't here anymore." Whoever this brother Cheng was, it was possible he could be held responsible for theft. "Did he nick my rope and my food?" I asked, quite innocently, really.  
  
The young monk smiled and united his hands in an apologizing gesture."Yes, he... Lama Dorje felt it was necessary to test you."  
  
"To test me?" Feeling like part some secret agenda again, I eyed the monk suspiciously. He ignored me.  
  
"My name is brother Songsten. I have lived here in the Manasarovar valley all my life. Every brother has to spend three years in this cave, and only come to eat and sleep in the monastery, in the village."  
  
"What village?"  
  
"The Kailash village. It's on the other side of the mountain. The entrance I use to get here is quite near it."  
  
Figures. Brother Cheng had been sent to make sure I wouldn't spot the village, pack my stuff and head home before finding what they wanted.  
  
"Listen, brother Changling, or whatever your respectable name was. I have just walked eight hundred miles to get here. I have one question, which will require a no-yes answer. Do you, or do you not, know the location of a holy relic called The Sadhana? Can you help me in any way in finding it?"  
  
The monk almost died of laughter. Water flowed from his eyes.  
  
"I didn't know it was allowed to laugh in holy caves," I remarked, a bit hurt. I had just, indeed, walked eight hundred miles just for the fun of being laughed at. At least he had the decency to explain.  
  
"It makes me sad if you have not found your Sadhana yet. I cannot help you with it."  
  
I sighed heavily. My luck. I had just come across the Monty Python of Tibetan monks. "What do you mean 'if I have not found if yet'? Could someone please, finally, explain to me what the Sadhana even is."  
  
The monk approached the altar, and picked up a small stone from it. He took my hand and pulled me closer.  
  
"The Sadhana is here. Everywhere. In the mountains. In this altar. This is Milarepa's cave."  
  
Milarepa is the most popular and loved saint in Tibet. He was very vengeful and dark-souled in his youth, but later came to remorse about what he had done, and began studying Buddhism in India and Tibet. He became a great Buddhist teacher and holy saint. He had spent many years in desolate caves, meditating. There were several caves dedicated to Milarepa in the Himalayas.  
  
"Unlike all the other caves, this is the real one." He picked up a small statue of Buddha from the altar. It was corroded and simple. "This belonged once to Milarepa. It is so old-looking and pitted because Milarepa cried onto this statue and his tears were dissolved into it."  
  
Somehow, I believed him. But I still had to learn about the Sadhana.  
  
"You said that the Sadhana is everywhere. What is it?"  
  
"Lara," - why did everyone always know my name? - he began, "The Sadhana is a rite of purification. A journey. A pilgrimage when you are in a state of life that you are standing at a crossroads and do not know where to go. The Sadhana is for the lost and forgotten. It isn't anything you can hold in your hand."  
  
"I understand," I whispered. And I really did. I closed my eyes and listened to the cave breathing around me. Drops of water made echoes in the chamber. Incenses and candles burned, their light flickering.  
  
I understood the purpose, but I couldn't understand the cause.  
  
"I have been here for two years. Every initiate who is sent here is told a story about a traveller. A woman, who one night appeared at a monastery door exhausted, and sick. She had travelled far - with such odds against her the story felt incrtedible. She fallen from the sky next to Mount Kailash, and walked to the monastery. He'd seen the holy lake. She knew ehere this cave was. Noone else knew."  
  
The was crap. I hadn't found any caves in 1989. Or had I? I cursed the imperfectness of the human memory, and set myself to listen to brother Songsten again. The story of my survival was once again told to me like a Buddhist legend. I couldn't adjust myself to it, so I just tried to rip off the facts.  
  
"After the woman had been sent back to her home, Lama Dorje sent three monks to find the cave. They succeeded - the woman had told them he had been on the side of Lake Manasarovar where the lake looked like a human eye. In five years, a monastery was built here, and soon a village formed around it. Now there is even a road to a nearby village, where there is an airfield."  
  
So I hadn't found the cave. I had just, by accident, given them a clue how to find it.  
  
"You speak very good English."  
  
"I have studied in Calcutta."  
  
"I don't understand - why did Lama Dorje send me here?"  
  
"He didn't send you here. He send you out there to find what you had lost. You had showed us the way - we had to pay our debt."  
  
What had I lost? My belief in my profession and my life. It was true that I had rediscovered those things - I was bursting of anticipation to begin travelling again. No matter how raggy, tired or hungry I was. I had believed I was in debt to the monks for saving my life, but they truly seemed to have another take on the subject.  
  
"So there is no Sadhana then? I mean, a concretic one."  
  
"There is a Sadhana. If you feel there is. Let me ask you one question."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"On your way here, have you made painful decisions?"  
  
"Yes," I whispered, and stared at a flickering candle.  
  
"Have you learnt anything?" he asked.  
  
I looked into his eyes. "You said one question."  
  
He shrugged. "Do you feel uncomfortable answering?"  
  
"No." Surprising, byt it was the truth. Try lying to a monk - I'm positive they know when you are telling the truth and when you're not.  
  
"Have you learnt anything? About yourself, Lara. About yourself."  
  
Had I learnt anything? Yes, I had. I had learnt that there was something greater than me in the mountains. I had learnt I could survive anything that didn't kill me - now there's an understatement.  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Then you have found your Sadhana."  
  
I carefully lifted the Buddha statue from the altar and held it until it felt warm in my hands.  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.  
  
siirma6@surfeu.fi 


	8. Chapter 8

I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider etc.  
  
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.  
  
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
An hour later, brother Songsten lead me to the village, told me not to worry about my backpack - it would be brought to the village in a day or two. He literally fed me - I was nursing a fever, my signature sign of extreme exhaustion. He let me choose if I wanted to sleep in the monastery or accommodate in his mother's house. I chose her mother's house - despite my experiences I had had enough of spiritualism for awhile.  
  
I fell asleep the minute my back touched the bed made for me. I slept for twenty-two hours nonstop, and then woke up, hungry enough to eat a half yak. Brother Songsten's mother was an old, loving woman. She told me, translated by his son, that I could stay as long as I wanted to.  
  
The local missionary was in a nearby village that week, and the next week he would drive to Nyoktse, where a plane would take him to Lhasa. I could travel with him, and catch a plane from Lhasa to Kathmandu.  
  
I stayed in the village the whole week, even visited Milarepa's cave a couple of times. For the monks' delight, I evaluated the age of a couple of their rugs and tapestries. They all spoke English - most of them had spent some time studying in China, Laos or India and learnt the language there. Many people would say I had walked eight hundred miles and nearly died in vain.  
  
The previous months I had walked a millions miles, it seemed, and nearly died for the world.  
  
This time, if I had died, I would've died for myself. And that is a feeling I needed to find. A certain level of selfishness. Clarity of thoughts. After that I could easily return to England, practice with my pistols, train on my assault course, unwrap a pile of maps and choose where to go next.  
  
A new beginning. In archaeology? Perhaps. In something else? Who knows.  
  
I have always been a rational thinker, but after being told a story about me being sent by Buddha to help a bunch of monks find a holy cave, I had to shake off some of my beliefs in logic. The monks really seemed to believe in the story.  
  
I have a friend who teaches theoretical physics in the University of West London. I once asked him, at a dinner party; "Where is God?" I admit being a little tipsy, and not too serious about it. But he did give me an answer. He told me a story.  
  
Einstein's theory of relativity - which I personally understand nothing of - approves time travel. It's a difficult thing to explain, but it does. But the thing itself evokes some difficulties. There is a famous paradox about a man who had killed his wife, stabbed her with a knife. He was imprisoned for twenty years. He spent the whole time building a time machine and succeeded. When he was released, he used the time machine to travel back to the moment of his wife's death. He shot his young self before the young version managed to kill the wife. The question is, what happened? My friend said that some scientists, including himself, liked to think that there is a universal law that prevents things that are illogical, from happening. Somehow. A law of nature, like gravity, that keeps a balance between good and evil, and keeps things simple enough for us to understand by using science as a tool. And that law, he believed, was God.  
  
I was somehow touched by this story. It combined science and religion in a strange way. I've never been very religious, but time to time I ask myself, what it this thing we call religion? Is it just a hunch that there is something beyond our experiences in this world?  
  
Perhaps there is a law. A universal justice that had saved me in 1989.  
  
I was ready to go back to doing what I do best - recovering and protecting the archaeological treasures of the world.  
  
I was ready to go home.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Sender: jy_ducarmine@paris.edu To: l_croft@britishmuseum.edu.uk Subject: Re: just a quick note  
  
Lara -  
  
I knew it was only a matter fo time before I  
received an email like this. I hope all is well.  
  
Welcome back,  
Jean  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Notes from the journey:  
  
There are three books this story is largely indebted to: "TIBET - Life, Myth And Art" by Michael Willis "FOOTPRINT GUIDES - Tibet" by Gyurme Dorje "Konungariken i Himalaya" by Michel Peissel  
  
There are some historical, religious and geographical mistakes in this story. Most of them are intentional ;=) Some changes had to be made in facts and physics in order to make this work.  
  
There are two wonderful persons whom I am in eternal gratitude:  
  
Tim Radley - one the greatest writers I've ever come across. A great helper, editor, and friend in TR paraphernalia.  
  
Jeppe Cleve - who never fails to make me laugh. Good luck with your script. It will be just incredible.  
  
Thank you, Heidi siirma6@surfeu.fi  
  
Ps. Please keep in mind that feedback is what most effectively feed sthe creative flame. If you enjoyed this piece, if you didn't - drop me a note. 


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